


Parfait

by Onus_Probandi



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Best accountant zooey, But I do love me some belfaa, I’m back at it again, I’m sowwy but I really love shivnir and 64 pwease accept these background ships, Lucifer is gayyyyyyy holy shit, Lucilius is a dick, Meta is a sad kid tm, Multi, Sandalphon cannot make tea, Sandalphon is really gay for the florist, So I begrudgingly accept him, T to E eventually, There's going to be a lot of drama, Trans Male Character, but the florist is onto that gay shit, hey hey hey I posted, how many days gays does it take to admit they're in love, lemme smash, like how much drama can a pastry chef get into, meta no you fucking moron, sandalphon has a mild drinking problem, that's him rn, the baker is cute, there will be graphic depictions of sex and sexual acts I just haven’t gotten to it yet, these some dense fuckers, “It’s a date” aGhjskskskaks my fucking heart omg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-05-24 01:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14944902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onus_Probandi/pseuds/Onus_Probandi
Summary: After the death of his mother, Sandalphon sets out to achieve his dream of opening a cafe, more than slightly distracted by the otherworldly beauty of a florist next door.Following his heart but constrained by his private life, Lucifer finds himself stealing glances when the baker next door isn't looking.





	1. Acceptance

He’s been twenty-three, close to homeless as the university threatens to kick him out on his ass, for ninety-seven days when his mother dies in a dingy hospice that smells of prolonged suffering and fluid.

Suddenly, cheating on tests in a last ditch attempt to salvage his 2.1 GPA, or chugging down shots of jellonized alcohol to blur the line between depression and joy, or finding the cutest, drunkest male who's easier to convince that it's not gay if you're wasted, it all seems in hindsight that he should have spent that time by her side.

Rain taps against the windows as autumn hits the north in full force, tea warm in a mismatched set of mugs on the desk, heavy curtains adding twenty years to the office, Sandalphon buried in a plush chair that's five times larger than his starved ass. It seems that gorging oneself on corn chips and ramen doesn't exactly allow one to access substantial caloric intake.

“Are you ready, Sandalphon?” His mother's lawyer asks with a soft, apologetic tone of voice. He's alone in the world and she fucking knows it. Yet another person privy to his depression.

He grips his mug tightly in his hand, allowing the warmth to spread up his palm. Sandalphon's unruly, untamed dark hair shakes a little as he nods.

He blankly listens along to the formalities, flecks of Earl grey swirling in the surface of his tea. He grabs a slice of lemon and a sugar cube, dropping the cube first into the mismatched tea. Maybe cream would have suited it better, but his mother always put lemon and sugar in her tea and that's all he knows about tea.

“...and I leave my estate, including my one million insurance payment, to my only son, Sandalphon.”

One million? The lemon slice slipped from his hand, falling onto burgundy carpet.

“W-what are you talking about? Estate?” His voice cracks as he sputters over these revelations. “My mom was on Medicare, she didn't have anything,” because of me, he bites into his lip at the unspoken addition.

“Your mother was fortunate to have a life insurance policy before she fell ill, and she wants you to benefit from it. Her wishes are clear that the money and estate are yours to use to ‘achieve the dreams you never followed.’” She squinted through heavy glasses as she read the last set of paragraphs in his mother's will.

“What the hell does that mean?”

She shrugs. “I'm afraid I don't know. I'm just the executioner of her will.” She reaches down into her desk, taking out a thin envelope sealed in classic red wax. “This,” she said, handing the envelope to him, “is the key to your mother's storage unit. Over fifty years of accumulation doesn't fit inside a small room.” She gave a sad smile.

“What do I do with this?”

“Whatever you want. You're your mother's only heir.” She reached over and clasped his hand, “I'm very sorry for your loss.”

' _Sorry for your loss, sorry for your loss, sorry sorry sorry oh how alone you must be so lonely with your mother gone, you shouldn't speak ill of your dead mother_!’ He clenches his fist around the letter and gives a bitter rendition of emotions that could be passed as mourning.

“Yeah. Thank you.”

He stares down at the wet, wrinkled paper envelope in his hands as if it held the answers to questions unasked. He had gone to college on his mother's dime because it was what she wanted, but what he wanted was to be away from the small town where he grew up and people knew him as someone else. He wanted to drown his sorrows in drink long before he was legally allowed to, to find comfort, however temporary it was.

He should have visited more. His mother didn't deserve to die alone.

Rain falls onto his head, water cascading down his cheeks, or at least that's what he wants to believe.

_'Achieve my dreams, huh.’_

He has one, it's stupid and he has no idea how to accomplish it, but it's the only thing he's ever been passionate about in his life. It's stuck in his head over the years, occasionally coming out of stasis to remind him that yeah, he does have goals.

He closes his eyes for a moment, mulling it all over.

Sandalphon’s body convulses with a choked sob, clutching the harbinger of hope and despair close to his chest, finally allowing the small part of himself to mourn.


	2. Chapter 2

“How the hell do you blow a hundred grand on _a fucking coffee maker_?”

“It's from Italy. And it's not just a coffee maker, it's an _absolute unit_.”

“Ok, one, fuck you; two, you're not allowed to use funds anymore.”

“Then you're not allowed to eat burnt pastries for free anymore. Please buy something and stop using the WiFi.”

Zooey purses her lips, the thought of free food and internet being lost too great compared to Sandalphon's obsessive coffee habit that only seemed to grow in extremes. First it was the insistence of a $500 grinder, then it was the French press saga, now it's this nightmare that triggers Zooey’s fight or flight response and mostly she wants to fight him.

She's an accountant, for fucks sake. It's her job to be constantly worried about his money. The viability of his dreams depends on her no nonsense, at least on the job no nonsense, attitude to such purchases.

“That's cruel, Pecan.” She pouts as the man shrugs his shoulders, utterly uncaring of her dilemma. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Let me buy my coffee unit.” Sandalphon was unwilling to give an inch regarding the one ton monster of a tabletop coffee maker.

“You already did! That's why I'm upse–argh.” She pressed her head flat against the cool marble slab of a counter, yet another frivolous purchase of his. “I hate you, just a little.”

He gave a cheery wink and smile before heading off to deal with a mid-morning straggler staring in an expression so blearly at the display case. Ah, so they need caffeine.

He was...far closer to thirty then he wanted to admit and probably a typical hipster, lacking in the hair length to wear a manbun without looking like a total idiot with a chocolate brussel sprout on the top of his head. Well, he's still a total idiot, but at least he doesn't look the part.

Culinary school has a way of wrecking someone's hands, especially when most of your work consists of working with melted sun, or sugar, as the mortals know it. He's nearly lost fingers when he didn't understand the power of hot sugar or that spatial intelligence is important when his palm ended up in his first final project. His delicate hands are no longer so, pocket marked by burns, knife cuts and whatever the fuck that light spot near his wrist is. He's given up on his nails entirely beyond clipping them short and scrubbing them clean between doughs.

He works on autopilot, just like he does most days, gorging himself on caffeine to subsist a schedule of four in the morning to late at night when he can't even read the computer anymore. Sometimes he falls asleep there, Zooey finding him asleep next to the oven when she comes in to complain about his latest purchase.

“Have a nice day.” He chirps with an energy that's powered by coffee. They go to sit by the window, so Sandalphon keeps his voice low when he complains to Zooey, “god, I'm tired.”

“You say that everyday. Get a better sleep schedule, or actually use your money on something helpful, like employees.” Zooey mutters into her laptop, typing numbers into her spreadsheet. “A shop of this size needs about four employees, not counting yours truly.”

He shrugs in the way when someone isn't thinking about it. Honestly, he's thought about employees before, but that would mean less money for his speciality coffee machines. Besides, no one could make his doughs the way he did.

Or maybe he's just a control freak.

Sandalphon gazes out of the largest window facing the street, catching a glimpse of his latest maybe obsession his watering plants next door. The platinum blonde takes such care with his flowers, rather than taking a hose to the geraniums and being done with it. He has several bottles of varying sizes of water spray, the number of bottles multiplying when it was time to feed and fertilize them.

He's been next door to the reclusive florist for about two years, and had a little crush on him for about as long. And who wouldn't be? He's rather beautiful, eyes as deep and blue as the June sky, face symmetrical, hair stylishly messy in a way Sandalphon can only hope to achieve. Sometimes he catches the florist wearing glasses, fashionable black frames, but aside from these rare moments when Sandalphon is at the right window at the right time, he's never seen the other man.

So it's a high school crush based off of window gazing and he's sure the platinum blonde isn't a consenting partner to it as he's never caught Sandalphon staring.

Zooey follows his gaze, looking his neighbor up and down. She presses her lips again when she glances at Sandalphon's face, rolling her eyes.

“Really? No, come on, don't get dragged back into pretty boy hell, Pecan.”

“I'm just looking,” he whines, as if all he's ever done is look.

Zooey taps her finger on the slab to accentuate her words, “you. Always. Say. That. Then I find you drunk out your ass and crying about how the pretty boy doesn't like you.”

Sandalphon gives a high pitched, manufactured laugh to drown her out from the handful of customers lounging, drawing their attention to the sound before turning back to themselves.

“I'm a respectable business owner.”

“You say, after buying a hundred grand coffee maker.”

“It's going to increase business, since I can make higher quality coffee.” He tries, pooly, to appease her. “It’ll pay for itself!”

Zooey doesn't buy whatever garbage he's selling, “You mean, it’s a shiny coffee toy for you to play with.”

“And? What’s wrong with that?”

“You’re tearing me apart, Pecan.” She waved her empty teacup in his face. “Please refill.”

He blinked a few times, wondering why he hasn’t thrown her out on her ass yet before standing, snatching the precious teacup up and setting off the make another batch of lemongrass and citrus.

Before he leaves, he throws a look over his shoulder, but his neighboring florist has gone inside already and he hates that he’s more than a little disappointed.

* * *

 

“Eugh, why don’t you just go and talk to him?” Another day, another complaint from Zooey, but this time it’s slightly productive. “I’m actually surprised he hasn’t come in here, but then again he’s willingly working with nature.”

Sandalphon makes a noise that’s described as fear and the sharp cry of startlement as his window watching ends. “Wh...no. He’s busy. I’m sure he is.”

Zooey rested her cheek on her palm, her face bored and fed up with his shit. “Yeah. How do you know that?”  
  
“I just do, okay?” He hissed, fingernails anxious against marble.

“You’ve been here, what, a year? How haven’t you two crossed paths before? Get the mail or something. Just go out when he’s watering his plants.”

Sandalphon inhaled sharply.

“No.”

Zooey slammed her palm against the marble slab, glaring into his eyes. “Then perish, you gay fool. Look but don’t touch, I curse you with blueballs.” She wiggled her fingers dramatically with a wizened rasp to her voice.

“Why are you even here?” He snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t you have other people to annoy?”

“Unlike you, I actually do my work instead of gazing at pretty florists. Look, doing it right now,” Zooey made a show of tapping on her keyboard, keysmash entered into accounts receivable.

“Oh!” There was genuine excitement in his voice as the blonde florist exited his shop with a set of spray bottles. “Here he comes.”

“Ugh…” Zooey draws out her syllables but doesn’t stop him.

He can’t really see them all that well, but he imagines that the florist has soft hands, long, slim fingers and a carefully cultivated look of serene beauty as he caresses each blossom, spraying petals with water.

Maybe he’s far more beautiful in Sandalphon’s mind than reality.

He opens his eyes and finds someone staring right back at him, slim blue eyes unwavering but curious if what he’s thinking of is true.

If that queer baker really is staring at him.

Sandalphon darts his head to the side, his heart thudding heavily against his ribcage, a blush creeps up into his cheeks, embarrassment clear. Zooey looks up at the choked sound he makes, connecting the dots between his face and the florist still watching the window as if he imagined all this.

She couldn’t contain the sharp bark of laughter that escaped her, ruining the last few minutes of work as she breaks into giggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback on this weird au is loved and treasured.


	3. Chapter 3

Lucifer is well aware of his neighbor, a brunette pastry chef who catered to the suburban and collegiate mid to upper class area with outlandish pastries and assorted teas in a quaint cafe (that’s just a touch elitist) he’s only seen from the outside looking in. It seems like a lovely place from what he’s seen, but he always stops short of actually going inside.

He wonders if it’s an insult, to work next door to each other but never bother to visit, but he always has a false starter when it comes to righting this wrong, unable to step over the property line for some reason, anxiety filling his bones. He isn’t the best at conversation, and his work is decidedly boring, so he can’t even use that as an excuse to walk over and introduce himself. They've been neighbors too long, falling into the odd period of time where it's unacceptable to introduce themselves but they can’t bring themselves to pretend as if the other doesn’t exist.

He’s well aware of red eyes on him sometimes when he goes outside to water the assorted flowers on display outside of his shop, but he isn’t quite sure how to address it all. Pecan, or so he’s heard from the accountant who sometimes comes into his shop to buy flowers on her way home, is harmless, as sweet as the pastries he so lovingly crafts when one breaks away the salty crust. Lucifer is...oddly relieved. He would hate to report a neighbor for stalking.

He wonders if he should look back.

_ No, no, that would be strange, _ he thinks to himself sometimes, clutching a small spritz bottle a little too tight.

Though, what kind of a name is  _ Pecan _ ? 

He bites his top lip, rolling the flesh and muscle between his teeth as he sits at his desk, work unfinished for the fourth Sunday in succession. He’s actually worked up the fortitude to greet him, but the lovely Caanan cafe is closed on Sundays, and he’s known that for weeks. Still, if it wasn’t closed, he would have absolutely introduced himself…

He can’t even convince himself of that absolute bullshit.

His fingers itch for work, to finish the arrangements that need to be shipped out by Tuesday night, but he’s, surprisingly, lost the motivation to do what he loves. Maybe this is how they’re meant to be, two binary stars dancing around each other’s existence but never quite meeting.

His head hits the desk rather painfully, pulling on neck muscles already abused. Why is he such a coward when it regards an easily fixable situation? Slender, pale fingers scarred by thorns twist into his sweater, seeking warmth in the thick weave as he buries himself in loathing.

A truck rumbles down the street, screeching on the wet asphalt as the brakes are slammed right outside his shop. The assortment of glass vases tremble from their perches, threatening to fall and waste his day and a good sum of money but eventually still.

Lucifer stands and makes his way to the front, expecting an early package but instead he's greeted by two grumpy movers, one complaining about her back and the weight of the package, trying to convince her partner that she needed to stay in the truck.

“Yeah, right. Get your ass out here and we can go home faster.” Her partner jokes, climbing into the back while lowering the lift.

Lucifer hasn't ordered anything over ten pounds, so this isn't his delivery, though he is curious who ordered something so large and why it's being delivered on a Sunday. He can't himself from watching, the shop otherwise empty for the moment as the cold rain stripped the downtown area of pedestrians and casual shoppers.

The two bang on the door of the elusive Pecan’s cafe but, of course, to no avail. They appear to be in heated debate about how to spend their Sunday when they decide to leave it at the front door of the closed cafe, offloading the heavy crate on the doormat, getting back inside of their truck and driving off.

Lucifer watches the crate for a moment, imagines its contents becoming soaked in the coming downpour. His fingers itch at the tips a little as if to spur him on. ‘It's not a crime, you’ll just be keeping it until he comes in the morning. You won’t open it.’ the voice of reason nudges harder with solid reasoning.

As he slips on a pair of heavy gloves, a smaller voice teases, ‘ _ he’ll be so happy _ .’

He decides to ignore it.

* * *

 

He’s wrapped up in three layers of blankets, quilts and whatever those thin sheets are called, to quell the fall cold when his phone vibrates and falls onto hardwood flooring. Sandalphon feels his blood turn cold at the slight  **crack** it makes when it lands screen first onto a solid surface, but loathes the idea of actually getting up from his warmth cocoon. He sticks out a foot, reaching around with his toes for it at first before giving up and emerging to retrieve the device. The screen hasn’t broken, for that he’s relieved.

He’s much less relieved by the notification, “package delivered.”

The slender brunette trips over himself several times as he tears off his clothes, washes the important bits under cold shower spray and attempts to locate his coat in the ever present piles of laundry strewn around the studio. He bruises his shoulder against the doorjamb, a loud curse of “Shit!” surprisingly therapeutic when his coat fails to materialize and he has to wear the sweater that’s starting to smell from the three days he’s worn it. It’s slightly wet from a towel in a place where it'll touch his skin and he honestly considers going back to sleep and letting the machine get stolen.

Maybe he should have opted for the $30 option of getting his dream coffee unit signed for, but an additional security was like paying for shipping at that point.

Sandalphon manages to get out the door with minimum death and increases his pace among the sunday shoppers, realizing just as he’s about to go through the turnstile that he’s forgotten his subway pass and phone.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but he cries a little on the way back.

* * *

 

Lucifer thrums his fingers against the pruning shears laying on his desk, casting a glance back to the crate occupying space in his office. He’s been pacing the last twenty minutes, going over his practiced excuses for why he had kidnapped such an expensive, and italian according to the label, device, but he still feels a certain anxiety pooling in his gut. He honestly hopes that Sandalphon (he’s learned his real name from the selfsame label) will come around sometime today, because the flower shop is closed on Mondays and by Tuesday morning, he expects a hostile pastry chef.

It’s at times like this where he wishes he had Sandalphon’s phone number, but he’s never had the opportunity to get his personal number and the one on his website is just to the closed bakery.

“For fuck’s-! Agh!” He hears a muffled cry of desperation from outside and something being thrown. Lucifer cautiously peers outside through a crack in the curtains, watching the brunette slowly tear out damp clumps of hair with one hand while tapping furiously on his phone with the other. He mutters something to himself as he walks from one end of his doorway to another, finally sitting on the wheelchair ramp and slumping his head.

Lucifer steps out of his shop, a tad unsettled now, a heavy drizzle of rain weighing down his hair and soaking into his clothes. He twists the umbrella open, grips the handle in his palm and debates between going over and announcing that he has the crate, or staying a safe distance away.

He steps ever so cautiously forward, that feeling in his stomach spreading throughout his body, excessive electricity between the synapses of his brain.

“Um...Hello?” Sandalphon’s head snaps up at the unfamiliar sound, eyes going wide. The first thing Lucifer notices is how red he is, cheeks and eyes irritated by frustration and tears, but his very pupils are a striking crimson. For a moment, Lucifer loses his words but the utter dismay on his face brings back reality. “You wouldn’t happen to be Sandalphon, would you?”

His eyes narrow and he nods, a short incline of his head.

“Well, I...ahem, I saw that they just left your delivery at the door, so I took it inside my shop to keep dry.”

Silence. Dead and utter silence as Sandalphon stares at him, gauges him by whatever standard he holds people to, and Lucifer estimates the chance that the brunette will be angry.

“...you really have it?” His voice is a soft wondering gasp, daring to hope.

Lucifer nods and Sandalphon immediately relaxes, falling onto the ramp with a solid  **thump** . “Oh, thank god. You're an angel, really, thank you.”

The platinum blonde gives a soft, genuine smile that barely graces his face, offering the umbrella to share. “I didn’t mean to make you worry, but I thought it would be a waste to have it sit on the ground all day.”

“Yeah, no, I get it,” Sandalphon is acutely aware of how close their shoulders are and how gross he must smell. He shifts away ever so slightly, hoping that the rather beautiful florist he’s spent months gazing at doesn’t find him disgusting. “It’s kinda expensive, so I freaked out when it wasn’t there. I’m not used to leaving my house on Sundays.”

The flower shop is warm and clean and smells of pollen, assorted premade bouquets sitting in refrigerated tubes along the walls, flower bunches arranged by color, going from red at the door and drawing one into the deep violets where the counter stood. A pumpkin or two sat by the door, the fresh scent of apple and pinecone emanating from the jack o'lantern. Slightly cliche, but Sandalphon was loathe to admit that it smelled nice. Lucifer leads him behind the counter into a small, cozy office, the back wall blown out and replaced with plate glass windows facing a deep greenhouse dotted with color.

Against another, decidedly more boring wall, is his coffee unit.

Sandalphon rests against the crate, splinters digging into his skin, and sighs a bit. “Ahh...there it is, my unit.”

“It’s Italian, yes?” Sandalphon nods, the splinters going into his cheek. Lucifer links his fingers together while he thinks of something to say that would relate the two, but falls short of voicing his feelings once more. Then, the moment, as it always is, is over, Sandalphon is loading his crate onto a cart and preparing to leave but hesitates a moment, looking back at the man who is infuriatingly taller than he is.

“Hey, um, thank you a lot. You saved my ass.”

Lucifer smiles, slightly more human and genuine than before. “You’re welcome. Perhaps one day, I could try your coffee. I’ve heard good things.”

If “heard good things” meant “read the customs label”, then yes, he's  _ heard good things. _

Sandalphon turns a bit red again under his cheeks, coughing off to the side to hide his embarrassment. “Oh, well, tha-thanks! You know, I went to culinary school and then Europe for a few years, and you know, Belgium has some great coffee traditions,” he trails off in his nonsense, his intelligent brain screaming at him to shut the fuck up about Europe. “...that’s where I got the contact for this thing, it’s like an invite only, handmade, coffee fanatic’s dream and...um...sorry.”

The florist, for his part, looks amused at his flustered yet passionate rambling. “It’s fine. But, you said this is a coffee machine?”

Sandalphon visibly brightens, “Yeah, it’s custom made just for my shop. There’s nothing like it in the world,” he says with a prideful grin, arms getting noticeably tighter around the crate.

Suddenly, he gets an idea, maybe a bad one, but maybe one that would make him seem less stalkerish and more like a normal business owner.

“Hey, since you’ve only ever heard good things, why don’t you come try something from my shop? I’m sure I make something you’d like.”

Lucifer blinks a little, surprised at the offer, but gradually softens. What could the harm be, to right an unspoken wrong between them and explore a friendship with a fellow coffee enthusiast?

Yes, friendship.

Is it plationic to think that the pastry chef next door is rather cute?

 


	4. Chapter 4

He did _not_ mean the very next day, but there he is, sitting by the window with his black glasses on his nose as he sets up his laptop with quiet, smooth movements, looking as ever beautiful and ethereal when the sun hits him just right. The sky, previously grey, has parted just for him, God framing him in a golden halo just to torment one specific gay.

Sandalphon wants to die or go back home and chug shitty vodka until his eyes bleed. He's exhausted, so he's wearing his ugly outfit, hair a mess and eyes bloodshot and bleary from a late night. And there Lucifer fucking is, so beautiful and fuck...why did he pick today?

They haven’t interacted beyond a casual acknowledging glance and wave when he entered, but Sandalphon lothes the moment when Lucifer finally comes back up to order.

The bell over the door rings and Zooey, perpetually late as ever, plops down onto her usual spot in the seat closest to the door, right in Sandalphon’s favorite corner, flipping her laptop open and groaning. “Bro, I’ve been up all night trying to find a deductible for your crappy coffee unit and balancing three other accounts in Kansas.”

Sandalphon tilted his head towards Lucifer's direction. “...he’s cute…”

“Eh?” She narrows her eyes in annoyance at his distracted, glazed expression, “hey, no, pay attention to me. My problems today.”

“Look at him. He’s beautiful. I want to eat off his abs.”

“Does he have abs?”

“He looks like it.”

“You're a cannibal then.”

“I mean look at him.”

“Ok,” she raises her head up, following his gaze. “Where is he?”

Zooey grins widely at the spectacle of a man, turning back to Sandalphon and pretending to type on her computer. “He’s better up close, goddamn. How did you get him in here?”

“I just...he stole my coffee unit...and uh...yesterday and gave it back.” Sandalphon says idly, watching a pen tap against slender, shiny pink lips, never more jealous of a goddamn pen in his life.

“Hey, Earth to Pecan Sandie. Stop being creepy.”

He’s already too far gone, watching the smooth handwriting of his favorite florist in total rapture. “Oh, shit, he’s coming this way. Fuck, pretend to be normal.”

“Excuse me?” Zooey hisses quietly and jabs him in the side with her thumbnail quickly, but leans back and pretends to both type and order from the menu. “The usual, but double lemon.”

Lucifer admires the glistening pastries behind the glass for a moment, an impressed smile on his lips as he contemplates his purchase. A soft hum emanates from his throat, eyes roaming before landing on an obsessively done scone riddled with brandy-soaked fruit.

The brunette inhales sharply, grabs the teacup Zooey insists is hers, a chip broken off the edge from her teeth when she accidentally bit into it, and puts her tea onto brew before straightening his apron and facing Lucifer with a slight blush on his face.

They stare at each other for a minute, silence stretching as they take each other in. Was yesterday real or just a shared dream, a result of something unknown between them?

Sandalphon breaks the stare with a slight, embarrassed cough, the back of his neck hot. “Um, thanks for yesterday. I never really gave you like a formal thanks.” Out of nervous habit, he picked at his thumb with his nails, the least gross tick he could do in front of Lucifer.

He waves his hand, “it's alright. I think this invitation is thanks enough, no?” Lucifer gives another of his small smiles and Sandalphon is utterly lost.

His voice is soft and melodic, the hint of an accent right on the edge of his syllables and his word choice. Up close, and through eyes unclouded from tears, he can see the gentle narrowness of his eyes and the deep sky blue of his irises. He's a pale god, but somehow he's just above sickly pale and into a lovely shade of pink.

“Ye-yeah, but a scone and coffee doesn't seem like it's good repayment for saving my life.”

Zooey is clearly enjoying listening to him struggle, snickering as she balances his cash flow and awaiting her tea and cookie.

“It was what any neighbor would have done,” Lucifer smiles again and Sandalphon busies himself with securing the scone he had his eyes on.

“W-w-wh...how...um…” Fuck, fuck, fuck, he can't look at him head on, he might just die of abject horniness. “How do you like your coffee?”

Lucifer touches his fingertips together, casting a glance at the shining silver coffee machine set up on the far counter with a curious glance before turning back and humming his reply, “ why don't you make me what you like to drink? I trust your judgement.”

Fuck, no, no. Sandalphon has unironically ordered unicorn frappes, he uses tea bags from Walmart because it's less expensive and he doesn't drink tea that much, he drinks fucking Smirnoff vodka that tastes like ass and caramel, he is not a good judge of flavor except when it comes to coffee.

“S-sure…!” He gives a smile that doesn't betray his inner screaming. It's an autopilot reaction, pressing the grounds and watching the water bloom them with his fists clenched in nervous machination, glancing back at the window seat Lucifer occupied before deciding on forgoing the flavorings for now and settling on cream and sugar. Only a little, not too sweet and not too creamy, the flavor of coffee still prominent and heavy.

Lucifer looks up from his work with a gentle jolt of his shoulders at the sudden flash of a delicate cup on a saucer passing his vision, setting down on the table. He looks above the frames of his glasses, watching the nervous motion of Sandalphon's eyes, desperate to avoid staring.

It's platonic, he swears, but Sandalphon really is adorable, broader than him in terms of shoulders but so small whenever they're in the same vicinity, shrinking back into his neck. His voice isn't even all that deep, a few octaves deep into the area Lucifer described as “perfect”.

“Thank you,” he says in his imperfect tone, a smile that feels oddly genuine spreading across his lips. Sandalphon makes a choked noise, nods and scurries off back behind the counter where the girl who once told him the pastry chef was named after a nut sits.

Lucifer raises the cup to his lips, blows the steam from the surface and takes a cautious sip.

Barely enough sugar and cream to disguise the harsh bitterness of black coffee, but the sweet subtle hints pleasant in their own way. Not too sweet, not too bitter, rather a delicate balance accentuated by the foam floating on top.

It is rather good. He wants to tell the elusive Sandalphon so, but he's busied himself in the kitchen, overdramatically making a cup of lemongrass and ginger tea with double lemon with his back firmly to the florist. Coincidentally, he seems to ignore the steaming cup right by his hand, focused on oversteeping the tea.

Lucifer's more than a little disappointed that he's come off as unapproachable again, but he tucks it away, idly searching for hotels three towns over, the heart for his short trip lost as the sky clouds over again.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s a low hour of the morning when Lucifer awakens from what could be described as a good sleep. A shame really, as they are few and far in between, but he takes the three hours he’s gotten in stride. The tile of his apartment is rather cold, sending shivers up his back as he puts on some water to boil, picks a strong, heavy set of beans from the cabinet and sets up the complicated machination that is his brewing process on the island. The television flicks to life, news white noise as he sets the remote down and instead searches for the best means to consume the fruits of his efforts.

Something fluffy and tiny brushes his ankles, a short, tired bark telling him they both should still be in bed. Lucifer kneels down to pat the pomeranian on her head, giving her a knowing smile. “Why are you up? You should still be sleeping.” Pavel gives another squeaky bark, shaking off her supposed tiredness in a show of solidarity.

The silly thing is a gift from his brother, deeming him ‘lonely and hopeless when it comes to conversation. Just another empty, pretty head,’ which Lucifer would take offense to if he didn’t know insults of a personal nature were how his oldest brother showed his love.

The grinder whirs to life, making short work of the whole beans. He, for one, is glad that his building is soundproofed or he runs the risk of facing Lady Auron Grey’s wrath at 3am. He stops short of achieving pulverized powder, preferring his grounds a bit heavier, shaking the contents into the filter, pouring steamy water over the top and letting it brew. Lucifer watches the soothing display for a moment before an idea flies into his head and he measures out a small amount of sugar and cream into his cup.

Idly, he finds himself sitting on the floor, fingers petting the fluffy mane of his faithful companion, fighting off sleep as he inhales the scent of freshly brewed arabica.

He also recalls that Sandalphon smelled just like it, that day in the rain.

* * *

  
The conference hall is crowded with people possessing intelligence exponentially higher than Lucifer’s own, chatting in a language he could never understand. This is the land of numbers and vectors, where Lucifer’s own paltry brain is strained to its limits in a show of unusual solidarity for his brother. His brother’s newer white clad colleagues whisper as he passes by, all thinking the same thing: “isn’t Lucilius a cripple?”

Such is Lucifer’s role at these things. He’s subversion down to the very minute until his brother wheels out onto the stage, smug and arrogant, basking in their shock that a cripple could weave such artful works of scientific discovery.

Though, Lucifer is certain that Lucilius mostly imagines his adversity. It makes for more dramatic biographies.

That’s always been Lucilius though, always seeing the forest for the trees, his life grander than any human lifespan could achieve. Lucifer has been privy to his planning of his funeral, complete with pallbearers and appropriate times for crying.

At least he’s in the will for his efforts.

In the back of the hall, nearest to the panel set up for larger presentations, Lucilius is wheeled down towards him from the ramp, smile sardonic and cruel, lacking any figment of joy and yet he knows his brother is utterly happy. He holds in his folded hands a glass bottle of half swallowed coffee, mixed with something alarmingly green that smells like Red Bull. Lucifer wrinkles his nose at the phantom flavor, the look on his face drawing Lucilius’ teeth out. Belial, for his part, is cheerfully oblivious to the abomination in his favorite Luci-prefixed human’s hands, riding on the back of the specially designed chair like a child on a grocery cart.

“Hello, little brother.” Lucilius gives a dramatic roll of his hand in wave and rests his cheek on his carpals, utterly bored already. “How was the flight?”

He knows Lucilius doesn’t care, but gives him a smile. “Quite fine.” He looks around at the hall. “There’s so much to see here, per usual.”

Lucilius exhales harshly. “Please. All of this garbage is children sticking glue to a carpet sample.” Of course. “I’m just here to make them feel important. You are here to be my trophy brother. Belial is my trophy wife.”

“Aw...Faa-babe!” Belial coos, palming Lucilius’ cheek, using the shorthand for his original name and physical contact Lucifer would have been surprised by if he hadn’t walked in on Belial with his full length buried into Lucilius’ ass as he casually read over a handful of papers with a bored, flushed expression on his face.

Ah, yes, what a pleasant memory. He can feel the bile rising up into his throat and he has to cough it free several times before Lucilius’ eyes flash in annoyance at his embarrassed display. ‘Easily manipulated by societal standards for what is proper’ he says of him whenever he finds his cheeks red. He should be shameless, as his brother has become, for standards of peasants should never dictate how they, the elite, act.

Lucifer can’t help the shame that creeps into his cheeks at certain thoughts, but he’s learned to become impassive, rubbing at his face until the blush is indistinguishable from irritation and his eyes are glassy.

“Lucifer, are you deaf?” His brother call from behind him, face bored. “Come. We have much to do.”

Ah, yes. Another long day as his brother’s display, someone to be shown around, head empty and face pretty, bait for Belial’s indiscretions as the older man seduced those Lucifer rejected.

“Is this boring you, little brother?” Lucilius sounds tired himself, fed up with this crowded nonsense and deliberate cock sucking from his colleagues. White clad masters of intelligent design, figuratively down on their knees, taking Lucilius’ ego between their hands and stroking it.

(It’s not particularly large, Lucifer idly recalls that accursed memory again and wants to vomit.)

“It…” He chooses his words carefully. “It certainly isn’t my field of interest.”

Lucilius scoffs. “Right. I forget. Flowers are your field of interest. Perhaps I should have put you in front of a shiny window.”

It hurts in that spot between his ribs, the sharp knife an insult to his intelligence he stands there and takes. He has a doctorate in botany for God’s sake, his dedication taking years of harsh study to bear fruit. He doesn’t want to be just a florist, but his situation demands such proximity and Lucilius fucking knows that.

For his part, Lucilius plays dumb at the set line to Lucifer’s lips, ignoring any role he might have had to play in his brother’s situation and otherwise attempting to feed his ever waning interest with a glance around the hall before alighting on a subject Lucifer was desperate to avoid.

“You seem distracted, little brother.” He finally hums in that bored tone of voice. He rolls his head on his palm and gazes at him. “Why would that be?”

“Um–”

“Don't say 'um’. It makes you sound common.”

Lucifer bites the inside of his cheek.

“Don't tell me you've found some other idiotic adulteress to swoon over.” It's sarcastic, biting and yet another sword in Lucifer's chest, twisting his sensitivities until the staples burst.

It's taken so long to put them back together.

“I...have no idea what you mean brother. You know as well as I do that I've learned my lesson.”

"Have you really?” Lucilius seems surprised. “Have you really learned that men below you do nothing but lie and scheme to usurp you? Take you and our family and sully our name? Have you really learned that because your face doesn't say that at all."

He can't take this anymore. It hurts, ah, it hurts so much. His brother loves him so, but his brother doesn't understand everything unlike his self image made him out to be.   
  
"You say that yet you have one right behind you. You act as if my suffering counteracts my experience in this lesson, but I have learned much more from that than I have from you."   


With nothing else but a twist on his heel he departs, wondering why he bothers in his attempts to fix someone utterly happy in their shattered state and oh so happy to tear others apart.


	6. Chapter 6

He's not there.

Sandalphon absolutely loves that he's now the first and foremost expert in Luciferology and that he's probably, one hundred percent, a stalker now. He's like one of those assholes from the shitty YA novels he totally doesn't read, obsessive to an extreme over someone he's only talked to once.

When you put it like that, he's pathetic.

But in any right, it's a Wednesday and Lucifer isn't out watering his flowers. He wasn't there yesterday and honestly Sandalphon was okay with that (no he wasn't), but today if he looks outside, he has to see breasts.

Which, he guesses, is okay. For other people.

“Still not out there?” Zooey asks over her third video on butter. The shop is slow in this time of morning, the morning not quite late enough for lunch but too late for another morning rush. They're practically alone except for the seclusive guy who always sits in the darkest corner, but that's like calling the backside of the sun 'dark’. It's all bright as fuck but some part of it is less so. At the very least, he buys more than a small coffee, he tips well for leeching on Sandalphon's wifi and doesn't seem bothered when Zooey plays her dumb videos at max volume while pretending to clean. He's cute, in an extremely shy kind of way, but not Sandalphon's type, which is saying something he guesses.

Sandalphon sighs heavily and leans against the glass, making more work for himself later.

“I miss him already.”

“Quit being gross and in love, it sucks.” Zooey threw her rag at his dumb face, thoroughly done with him. It missed and smacked against the glass with a dull thump, attracting the eyes of the two women standing outside by Lucifer's shop.

Shit.

“Shit.” Sandalphon ducked out of sight but not before they spotted him and the smaller girl with flowers in her hair waved.

“Oho, someone caught you stalking.” Zooey sneered triumphantly as she retrieved her towel. “Such is the way of the stalker.”

“Shut up!” He hissed sharply, spraying too much Lysol onto the counter and scrubbing heavily.

“Now that you're done being gay, remember that the Calebs need that birthday cake by Sunday. You know, your actual business?”

Sandalphon groaned. He had totally forgotten about the five-tier monster of chocolate geode cake for the spoiled bitch who had spat his vanilla out complete with hacking noises. Which, you know, is what he wanted to deal with while surrounded by easily throwable sharp things and a dull urge for interest.

“Right. Fuck. Watch the register.”

Zooey groaned at the prospect of dealing with a wild Karen, but tied an apron around her waist and plopped down next to the POS with a bored expression on her face until a video on making bread came on.

* * *

 

Cake decorating is surprisingly therapeutic, something he’s learned from years of pastry school and of molding chunks of sugar and flour into art. He drops dark blue food coloring into the buttercream turning it into an airy aqua color and then smoothing it out on the jagged, bare edge of shaped chocolate cake. Crystals made of isomalt and nodes of clear sugar waited on a tray for a light hand to set them just right into the crevasse.

He can let his mind wander into the land of edible art and let go of the way Lucifer’s lips twitched when he smiled, or how his hair sparkles and threatens to blind Sandalphon in the summer or how he sometimes sings quietly to his daffodils, abruptly stopping to chuckle at himself.

And...there he goes. He can’t even make a cake for a hill demon without thinking about Lucifer’s stupid, stupid, beautiful, cute face. Even the buttercream is tinted the color of his eyes.

Sandalphon presses the back of his wrist to his eye and scrubs at it as he groans. He hates this. He hates this feeling of feathers in his gullet as if he’s going to vomit doves onto the tiles because he sniffed another guy’s cologne one time when he served him coffee.

It smelled expensive. Like flowers. God, just like how Sandalphon imagined when he’s alone at night and sniffing a satchel of lemon potpourri he keeps under his bed to get and keep an erection.

His thumbnail scrapes against his nose. He can handle a horny crush on the cute florist next door, he’s been there before in college, but this is radically different. Lucifer is pervasive and contagious like the flu in a kindergarten, latching onto Sandalphon’s mind and settling into his systems. Sandalphon is simply just strapped in as the blue-eyed demon spins him sadistically in the love/horny chair.

He feels sick, his object permanence thrown off when Lucifer is away. Is this real, are his emotions real, will he actually puke up wings as the spin cycle continues on and on?

Is Lucifer real or too beautiful for reality? For Sandalphon’s reality?

He aggressively takes out his frustrations on the buttercream, deflating it and leaving it unusable. Sandalphon sighs in distress and tosses the bowl into the sink, running his hands through his hair and pressing his palms to his nose.

He’s actually going insane over this. He’s talked to him about twice and nearly screamed during the first time at several points. Lucifer is dangerous in his beauty and exotic in that lit of his voice that reminds Sandalphon of his studies in Europe. He’s familiar and foreign, a hometown inhabited by the alien.

Before Sandalphon slams his head into the counter he wonders what Lucifer’s hair would feel like and keens in suffering.

* * *

He gets a cart with the shittest wheel that both squeaks and leans hard to the left, but it doesn’t matter much because he knows where he’s going and what he wants (he still dubs the cart: _Shit Cart_ ). He can drag it behind him or fucking throw it by all means, he just wants good old fashioned _vin rouge_ to drown his crush in.

And maybe make some braised beef. He’s a bit of a lightweight.

Sandalphon makes nonsensical noises with his mouth as he roams the aisle, ignoring the white for his preferred reds and grabbing the mid-priced bottle with the stupidest name without bothering with the flavor profile bullshit.

There. Shopping done. Oh, wait no, he needs a packet of fresh rosemary to go with that imaginary beef he now wants for dinner tomorrow.

Shit Cart takes a dive to the left while Sandalphon is distracted by food and hits another approaching cart coming from the pet aisle.

_‘Fuck.’_

“Sorry, sorry, bad cart y’kno-” His eyes widen in abstract horror when the owner of the cart peeks out from behind the endcap with curious blue eyes.

_‘Fuck, fuck, oh my god, fuck.’_

Lucifer gives an apologetic and warm smile, eyes crinkling a little at the edges. Oh, god, someone shoot him, he’s so beautiful, _it hurts_.

“A…” Another dumb sound escapes from him despite the witty remarks that had been bouncing around his head all day about what lines he would try next time they met.

“Ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.” Lucifer apologizes in that light inflection of his, a country Sandalphon couldn’t place right on the edge of his vowels. Australia?

His eyes flicker down to Sandalphon’s Shit Cart, which held a lone bottle of wine. It rattled around noisily, bringing attention to his shit drinking habits. Suddenly, his face is on fire and shame creeps up his spine even more than the day when he bought potpourri for the explicit purpose of masturbating.

...He should stop thinking about that to Lucifer’s face.

“It’s fine, haha…I’m just going shopping for some…” Something besides dried flowers come to his mind. “...stuff for braised beef.”

Lucifer’s eyes light up with a mixture of emotions Sandalphon is going to call positive. “I forgot! You went to culinary school. I wish I had done that; I’m a terrible cook.” His chuckle is soft, thoughtful. Sandalphon can’t imagine this Adonis in a stupid frilly apron setting fire to a salad, but then again, he already is and he can’t help it.

He fights to keep the stupid look off his face. “How do you survive?” Sandalphon feels a thick vine of poison slip around his heart as the next logical train of thought comes unbidden. “Does your girlfriend make you dinner?”

The taller man raises an eyebrow, eyes curious and confused. Finally, realization dawns on his face and he looks a bit shattered for a second before smiling again. “Oh...no, no, I live by myself. Dinner is...ah, frozen.” He has the decency to look ashamed to appease Sandalphon’s inner chef, but Sandalphon is latching firmly onto the first half of that sentence.

_‘I live by myself.’_ Single. His reaction was unexpected, maybe there was a girl who left this kind soul broken into pieces, but nonetheless, Sandalphon can fix that. The vine slinks away, appeased.

Lucifer is saying something about tasting and beef and Sandalphon forces himself to listen. “...ha, I usually have to pay you for that, right?’

_‘I’ll do anything you want for free.’_ Mm, no, too whorish.

“Hm? Yeah, yeah, but if you want, I can make you some for lunch.” Sparkles dance in Lucifer’s eyes at the prospect of actual food. “You’re at your shop tomorrow, right? Or are you taking another day off?”

He nods, rolling a finger around a lock of silvery hair. “I was just out of town for...mmh, a family emergency. If you come by, maybe I’ll have some flowers for you.”

Is...is he...flirting…? Oh, my actual god, he is being hit on by the pretty florist that he’s been stalking for the last year or two.

Sandalphon manages to squeak out as the realization crushes his lungs, “It’s a date.”

Lucifer smiles, “a date it is.”


	7. Chapter 7

He’s absolute shit and maybe he should have actually finished culinary school instead.

Sandalphon stares at the containers of creamy risotto and rich, wine braised beef with both dread and desperation, eyes boring into the meal as if he could set it on fire with his gaze and die right there. He’s mostly learned how to do this nonsense from his several magazine subscriptions instead of the smattering of months he was in the savory profession. Maybe he can just throw it into the trash and buy Lucifer actual lunch at a restaurant. He can swallow his pride, he can die in shame, just as long as Lucifer doesn’t think he’s a massive asshole and oh, god, he’s going to die right now.

The bell over the door jingles lightly and he unfurls from his ball of existential dread behind the counter to peer over the edge and mutter hello to Zooey, only to sputter a bit when he comes face to face with the guy who sits in the corner. The guy flinches back, his ears standing on edge in his hoodie and clutching his bag to his chest. He always has a mask covering his mouth, perpetually ill apparently.

“God, sorry,” Sandalphon apologies as he stands up. “Sorry, man. I thought you were my friend.”

The erune’s ears and shoulders relax. “It’s fine,” he says from behind his mask, voice muffled. He’s sorta Sandalphon’s only regular, but he picks random things from the menu and spends most of the morning on his laptop. Sandalphon has written down his name a few times, something French or something like that, but he probably will butcher it if he ever speaks it.

Ironic, considering he’s a French trained pastry chef.

“...am I early?” The guy asks, probably committing a crime if he is.

Sandalphon flicks his wrist upward, checking the time on his Fitbit. He opens on Fridays at obscene times, also known as seven o’clock, and it’s seven-ten right now, giving French guy a ten minute legality. “Nope. Right on time actually.” He brushed off his apron and gave the erune a weak smile. “What are you trying today?”

Red eyes narrowed on the features of the guy, scrutinizing his steel-grey hair and skin that may have been tanned in the summer, but in November had faded it into a palish peach. He always bundled up in a thick varsity hoodie pulled up to hide his eyes, warm pants and sporting his surgical mask to cover his mouth. He always has his satchel slung across his body, assorted charms dangling from the strap. An odd one, but not the dangerous type considering his preference for the sparkly shit Sandalphon has on the kids menu.

He was motioning to a thick slab of New York style cheesecake, muttering about getting the largest slice. He’s oddly adorable in a fluffy kind of way, a college guy that Sandalphon would have gone after in another life but is utterly uninteresting due to his distaste of younger men. Still, he’s a customer and a well-paying one and he has yet to give Sandalphon shit.

Zooey makes her existence known loudly as she groans, tossing the items in her hands onto the counter. Her bag slams against a chair as she whines, thumbing through her laptop as she tried to get Sandalphon’s attention. He promptly ignored her to finish his early morning customer’s order, cheesecake and a warm raspberry tea, taking note of the name emblazoned on his credit card.

Seox. Huh. French, he was right. Seox makes a little face about how hard Sandalphon was studying his card (or maybe Sandalphon imagines that quirk to his eyebrows) but retreats to his usual table without complaint.

“Hey, so can you tell me why you were screaming at me at 11pm about a braising pan?” Zooey snarled, jabbing her spoon against her cup.

Sandalphon groaned as he reached down, carefully setting the duo containers onto the counter.

He inhales. “I have a date.” Exhales and prepares for her subsequent admonishment.

Zooey sputters wildly.

“Pdh-aghhh-a dat-a date?” She inhales hugely to prevent from screaming at him, ending up with a breathy screech directly into Sandalphon’s ear.

“When the fuck did you get a date?”

“Yesterday.”

“When you went to get wine.”

“Yes.”

“With who?!”

Sandalphon can’t help the smile from splitting his lips in two.

“Lucifer.”

Zooey practically leaps over his counter to strangle him, “Dude! Why didn’t you tell me last night?! Break in my house, wake me up, something; just tell me that the hottest dude on our block wants to get in your toasty pants.”

Seox coughs a little awkwardly, embarrassed behind his laptop. Sandalphon can pick out the pink around his eyes and knows that Zooey is being far too loud.

He jabs her in her side with a thumbnail, causing her to screech a curse as a mother of three walks in with impressionable children.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Inhale.

Exhale.

_Breathe._

Sandalphon stares at the door, surrounded on all sides by flame colored mums planted in pumpkins and pocketed with wispy cattails. A brilliant protega blooms in heady pink glory, giving Sandalphon a burst of courage at the tenacious bastard flower. He opens the door, relishing in the warmth of the building, carefully clutching the containers to his chest. The girl behind the counter waves with a bright smile, long pink pigtails moving side to side. An older woman with...oh god it’s them. He remembers that monstrous chest outside his window the other day. He’s sure she has other features, but he only remembers boobs.

“Hello, welcome to Estalucia Flowers. Are you looking for a bouquet or centerpiece?”

He gives an awkward tucked-elbow wave. “Hi. Um, I don’t know anything about flowers...I’m looking for Lucifer?”

The older woman gives him a look, curious, but disappears into the back leaving Sandalphon with the cheery girl as she dropped cystantiums into a cylindrical vase and tied a bow made out of jute string.

Hm. Chic. Sandalphon would have to pick up something for his apartment. Well, apartment is Sandalphon being fancy with his adjectives.

“...he has food. I think I saw him the other day. He was looking at Yugu through the window.” The older woman had an edge in her voice as they round the corner, Lucifer pulling thick gloves off of his delicate fingers but ignoring the leaves and petals in his hair. Recognition dawns on his face, breaking into a smile.

“Sandalphon!” He takes a container from him, awkward in how he should greet him. Do they hug? Do they shake hands? They end up standing there for a long moment before Lucifer says, “we can eat in my office,” and leads him inside the same area where Sandalphon’s coffee unit had sat, but this time, light flooded the room. The greenhouse today is studded with color, golds, reds and those within the fall spectrum, but Sandalphon can spot some other, summery colors in the back.

“Wow.” He breathes as Lucifer clears his desk of papers, leaving a potted plant on the far side, and bringing a chair around for Sandalphon. “It’s so beautiful. I still can’t believe you do this all by yourself.”

Lucifer sits down with his glee apparent at the warm, home cooked meal in front of him. He cracks open the top and inhales, Sandalphon trying not to preen so hard when his lunch date lets out a gleeful giggle.

“Sorry. I haven’t had homemade food in years.” Lucifer gracefully devours the meat and creamy rice. “...Does that make me sound pathetic?”

Sandalphon shrugs. “Cooking is hard. Though, I’m surprised you never took cooking classes.” God-fucking-yes, those three months of culinary school had paid off. He thanks his past self for not going directly to the pastry side as he spoons his lunch into his mouth. “They have them at like, Whole Foods or something.”

Lucifer makes a face of abject embarrassment. “I’m...ah, banned from those classes at stores.”

Nearly spitting out his water, Sandalphon swallows thickly. “Banned, huh?”

“N-nothing bad! I just…” he mutters something into his food.

“What did you do to those poor hipsters?” Sandalphon questions, his tone bland and dry, sarcasm wrung from his voice.

“...I burned about 5% of their building.”

Sandalphon can’t help himself. He physically starts wheezing, laughing and spilling the contents of his bottle onto his hand. Lucifer at least has the good humor to smile at the display, his cheeks a bit red.

“H-H-How do you even-” Sandalphon breaks into another fit of laughter. “Gods, man, how did you do that?”

“They had us make flambe!” Lucifer defends, waving his spoon around accusingly. “One second, I have bananas, the next, the roof is on fire.” He thinks for a moment. “I’m technically not banned from the store, but I don’t go to that one anymore.”

Sandalphon rights himself in his chair, sighing. “Well, if I have time, I could teach you a little. You know, so you can boil water without dying from carbon dioxide poisoning.”

“I’ll definitely take you up on that offer.” They go silent as they eat, but it’s the kind of silence that feels comfortable. They’re both working on potential topics in their heads, not wanting to pry too deeply or insult, breaking this fragile relationship before it begins.

Sandalphon gazes at the plant on his desk, flowers reminding him of less dense and pink broccoli. The pot it is planted in is covered with post-it notes, all written on with looping cursive that Sandalphon can’t read. He blames his hatred of the writing style for his lack of understanding, but he knows that he likes the way Lucifer dots his I’s, accented the spanish way with a swish.

Maybe it is in spanish. But like he’s said, he can’t read it for dick.

“What’s that plant?” Sandalphon points to the plant, which swayed a little when a blast of warm air hit it.

“Hm? Oh.” Lucifer is unreadable for a moment. “That’s a sedum.” He gives a faraway, almost sad smile, clearly daydreaming of the moment that plant first graced his desk. “It’s nice, though rather depressing in meaning.”

‘ _Meaning_?’ Cryptic, but Sandalphon feels terrible for upsetting him, however slightly. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.” He raps his fingers against the wood, thinking. “You know, I never saw you actually eat my scone. Did you like it?” His voice goes higher at the end, his pride lashing out a little.

Lucifer is snapped out of his stupor. “Oh, yes! It was lovely. Though, not my favorite.” Noticing the look of conflicted murder on Sandalphon’s face. “No, no, I mean that I prefer chocolate.”

Sandalphon comes off his hackles. “Oh. Chocolate. That’s fair.”

“Did I offend you?”

“Truthfully?”

“Yes.”

“Never tell a pastry chef that you don’t like their stuff. They’ll fight you right in the bakery.”

Lucifer cocks his head, surprised at the factoid until Sandalphon starts laughing again. “Sorry, that was a joke.”

He rights his head. “Oh. I can’t tell with you sometimes. Your tone is exactly the same.”

“That’s fair.”

Sandalphon fidgets with his meal, thumbnail pressing against his fingers, suddenly small underneath Lucifer’s gaze. He watches Sandalphon flutter thick, long lashes as his thoughts race deep behind his eyelids, his face exposing none. Worried lines crease Sandalphon’s mouth for a moment before they vanish into his skin, but Lucifer can imagine his thumbs soothing over those soft cheeks, chasing those lines away.

Ah, but that’s not his place. And is sexual assault.

“Can I ask you something?” Sandalphon ventures, tucking hair behind his ear. Idly, Lucifer thinks how cute he must look with his hair back but turns his focus back to those lips.

Again, he needs to get a hobby.

“Sure.”

Sandalphon jabs his thumb back towards the front of the shop. “Who are those two? I’ve never seen them before.”

Lucifer looks confused. “How is that possible? They’re my employees, Rosetta and Yggdrasil. They’ve worked here as long as I have.” A devious smirk sprawls out across his pink lips. “Or are you too busy watching me to notice anyone else?”

A deep, heavy red blush spreads across Sandalphon’s face and his spoon falls onto the desk with a clatter. His lips part, attempting to form words, sentences and thoughts but only sputtered out white noise. “Wh-wh-wh...th-that’s not…”

Blue eyes sparkle with mirth, the clear sun scattering on the surface of the ocean. He’s warm and welcome, deep and enticing, threatening and beautiful. Sandalphon can only think that Lucifer has to like the beach. Or is a siren.

Both are likely.

Lucifer chuckles and sets his empty container to the side. “It’s fine. Though, I will admit, it was a bit strange to see someone like you watching me. You always seem so busy.”

“I’m only busy with Zooey. You can come in whenever you want and I’ll make you something.”

“Something with chocolate.” Lucifer declares adoringly, resting his cheek on his palm.

“Of course.” His phone chirps from his pocket and the second Sandalphon glances at it, another message from Zooey, detailing her suffering in customer service. “Ah, sorry, I’ve got to go. It was nice to talk to you. And I’m glad you had a meal that wasn’t showered with radiation.”

“When I inevitably become a mutant, you will be the first I tell.” Lucifer smiles and hands Sandalphon his container. “Thank you for the meal and companionship, Sandalphon.”

“Oh-ho, he leaves so disheveled.” The older woman, Rosetta, giggles with the pink haired Yggdrasil. “Oop, he heard us.” Yggdrasil claps her hands over her mouth, smiling behind her hands.

Sandalphon would say something, but he hadn’t known their names until five minutes ago, so he accepts the gossip, tucks his arms into his shirt as the autumn wind blows the flowers outside and steps outside. It’s getting cold, halloween right around the corner, and he can feel the cold itching at his nose as he makes the twenty steps back into his shop.

“Wait!” Lucifer’s voice carries from behind. His shoes tap on the cobblestones as he hurries to Sandalphon’s side. He shoves something into the brunette’s hands, his ears a bit pink as he walks away. “Ahaha, I forgot to give you that. It’s a thank you gift.”

The teapot is a soft aqua, the top filled with sprawling blue flowers and tall, wispy grass. It’s probably the nicest thing Sandalphon now owns, his own shop counted. He’s seen something like these carried out by pleased patrons of Lucifer’s shop during the summer, but never thought he would be holding one in his own hands.

Lucifer has already disappeared back into his shop, and he’s not in any of the windows Sandalphon can see, so Sandalphon takes a sniff, inhaling flora and cologne, something european and fancy and rich. A small white card stands out in the dense foliage, the source of the fancy smell and written on with that looping writing Sandalphon can’t read. The ten numbers at the bottom do catch his attention though, readable and stunning in their inclusion. Suddenly, all the gibberish on the card makes sense.

“You can call me to talk about flowers. Or not.”

His number. Strike him fucking down, it’s Lucifer’s number.

Sandalphon stares at the card until it’s damp and wrinkled in his hands and only then does he realize that it's both raining and that Zooey is yelling at him to get out of the rain and help her at the front. He clutches the card close to his chest, bending down to keep his torso dry.

Right. The world keeps spinning. Sandalphon’s may be shattered and glued back together by a beautiful man with beautiful flowers, but the others in the spiraling death sphere he’s standing on are going about life as normal.

Still, the realization that the lovely florist next door likes him enough to give him his number is a pretty fucking good reason for the world to stop moving.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello~! It’s your friendly neighborhood Onus! This chapter marks the end of the first arc of this story, so it’ll be on hiatus for a month or two while I work on other things, including a tie-in for this story.
> 
> A few notes: Sandalphon knows a little french, but considering he doesn’t know numbers, he only knows the drink related words.
> 
> A sedum has a really interesting meaning, found here if you’re interested: https://goo.gl/images/zztK8B
> 
>  
> 
> Lucifer scored the wrong kind of chef.
> 
> Seox wants a hug and I need a nap. Have a nice RoTB!


	8. Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not dead yet oh shoot fam

It’s around Halloween when the sky stops dancing around the subject and snow falls from heavy clouds, and white dusts the ground, melting in the glare of the sun before freezing up again during the long night. His building, fortunately, scrapes and salts the sidewalks long before the first sleepy white collar grumbling about the cold makes their way into the parking garage, but that hasn’t prevented Lucifer from slipping on  _ something  _ and jabbing his elbow against a flowerpot the other day. 

He idly massages the scabbed scrape through his sweater before he pulls back his glove and digs once more into the cool earth. All this beautiful work has gone to waste, he sighs, what a shame but it’s his own fault for planting these so close to the breaking point of winter. At least he had gotten a few weeks of use out of the displays. 

Dead plants effectively removed into a heavy paper bag from one of the few health food stores he hasn’t burned, Lucifer sits back on his heels, putting far too much thought into how one could use pine wreaths to decorate. A mild obsessive streak for him this time of year, if only brought on by the lack of wintertime variety. Oh, a poinsettia, how original. Oh, a wreath, you harlot, how dare you deface Christmas with original ideas.

Lucifer, perhaps, is the only person in the world who cares.

But he supposes it’s better than uncomfortable pining. He cranes his head slightly towards the left, catching the glimmer of the window as the sun passes over it, but the textbook peek of red eyes attempting to steal a glance is absent.

And suddenly a wave of upset washes over him. It’s been over a week since he mustered up more courage and suave than he had ever possessed to give Sandalphon that card, but maybe he had overestimated the situation. Sandalphon was surely pretty enough, maybe he was already taken? Maybe he saw Lucifer as desperate, a lonely man hiding behind his flowers.

Suddenly, his gesture that seemed so romantic when Lucio suggested it seems all too disturbing.

“Hello~!” He’s startled out of his loathing by a cheery voice from across the street. Lucifer’s gaze is lifted to meet the eyes of the blonde waving from an empty storefront. Oblivious to the danger, he dashes across the street without looking, nearly avoiding the windshield of an F-140 by mere feet. 

Lucifer grimaces at the flagrant disregard for basic safety but ignores it to give the summer blonde a wave as he safely lands on the other side. Following closely behind is his younger partner, Elta, eyes swiveling from one side of the road to the other. From the day Lucifer met the two, Elta has always been a bit of a mother hen to the dreamy artist, but somehow the relationship works, perhaps the making of a successful married couple in the future.

Soon, actually. Caro had been the one to take the initiative.

“Hello, you two, where are you going this time of day?” Lucifer checks his wrist. About five in the afternoon. Huh, curse the dark days of late, he’s been out here for hours. 

“Caro and I are going to get something to eat. Testing out caterers and all that.” Elta gazes at the sky for a moment, checking for snow. “Want to join us?” 

Maybe a good meal with friends would take his mind off his incoming depression cry in the bathtub as he stares at his blank phone screen waiting for a text that would never come. “Sure,” Lucifer brushes off his coat as he stands, pulling off his gloves. “Where are you headed?”

Caro gestures at the cafe right next door. 

_ Of course. _

“On-um-on second thought....” Lucifer struggles for an excuse, “I have to mulch these.” He shakes a trembling hand at the paper bag filled with dirt. “Aha, that is an all-day process.” 

Neither of them buy it, following his eyes and spotting the dark-haired beauty within the shop, but Caro gives a sad smile, disappointed like a child on Christmas who only got calendars. Elta is quick to step in, effectively shooting holes in Lucifer’s excuse, “then you can do it tomorrow! We need a third opinion or we’ll be stuck all night trying to pick a menu.” Caro nods his head in agreement, adding: “Too many late nights are bad for you!” as they effectively drag him off to his death. 

The bell over the door rings, a pleasant chime distorted by the blood rushing to Lucifer’s ears, pounding against his eardrums until the sound becomes the toll of death he’s heard too many times in his childhood. The delicate beauty of an owner turns his head at the cheerful tune, smiling for a millisecond before his eyes widen when they meet Lucifer’s. His face crumples before it explodes into a trillion particles of the blush spreading across his face, red and pink freckles across his nose and cheeks. 

Lucifer can’t help but think it’s the cutest thing he's ever seen in his life. 

They stare at each other for a moment, two embarrassingly terrible communicators wishing the ground would open and swallow them up but then they would be together and have to talk to bide their time until they both die from starvation.

Lucifer musters up a wave, arm firmly glued to his side, very much feeling like maybe he should hide in the closet like he’s done for years. Sandalphon clutches the platter of cakes he’s holding to his chest awkwardly, waving back from underneath the sheet tray.

They’re both hopeless schoolboys flirting from across the yard and Lucifer hates that all the suave he had mustered up in the mirror has evaporated into sweet, autumn air.


	9. Bargaining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Metatron makes a series of mistakes.

It’s about 11 in the evening when he’s finally allowed to trudge upstairs and into his room, tearing off the tuxedo that’s far too big for him and smells like the mothballs it was packed in. They did a shitty job, fray showing at the edges of his sleeves but he can’t complain, his family is fucking poor and the medical bills of late have only served to dig the hole deeper. His mother is left alone with some family members he hasn’t seen since he was born, but he feels so out of place in their heavy conversations filled with references to events he wasn’t present for.

Metatron pulls his hair back into a high ponytail as he slips into his pajamas, sinking down against his bed and staring blankly at the door across the room. Exactly 16 steps away from this spot. And 45 steps away is the room that used to be his parents’ but now only belongs to his mother.

It hits him in waves, yanno? When he learned in the backseat of his mom’s beat up chevy truck that his dad died hours after being admitted to the emergency room, they had to pull over so he could expel the contents of his stomach into the Nevada desert. The funeral process had all been a blur, dark colors and heavy greys. His mother cried, a lot. Often. He probably spent too much time under his blankets, scrolling through Twitter as life went on but a portion of his ended.

His dad hadn’t been around when he was little, actually most of his life he only really knew his mom, but when he was 12ish his dad became a semi-permanent figure in his life. His parents weren’t married—she still gave Meta his last name—and they didn’t live together but at least Meta could see him about five times a week. It was a nice increase over never.

His dad had died before Metatron could tell him that he had been admitted to his university of his dreams in upstate New York. Meta’s mom had filled out the FAFSA and everything for him, which, now no longer applied since his father was gone. Meta didn’t know if he would be proud or not, but...well he would never know.

His dad was the stereotypical blue collar type so probably not, especially if he ever learned that Meta was going to major in journalism. Typical guy’s guy, the one thing Meta never really liked about him. He always mocked Meta’s lotion choices (Bath and Body Works has really smooth texture) fashion choices (always a bit too “girly” with the leggings and the boots) and the way his voice never quite gained the bass it should.

He’s heard the “F” word used in relation to him quite a few times. But. His dad just wanted the best for him. The kids in school have said and done worse.

His desktop lights up with a notification and he makes a point to check it. He’s been neglecting his school email, letting the notifications pile up in his confused depression. He swipes his mouse across the pad, free palm digging into his cheek as he navigates into his email.

“Hello, Metatron. According to our records, you have a sibling, Sandalphon Ernesto, who also applied to this college. You may use their parental information to complete the process.”

Wait. Sibling? Sandalphon? He’s never heard of this person in his life. He’s been an only child forever. He’s wanted a brother or sister, but his mom never indulged him.

Maybe it’s a mistake. His last name is pretty common, they probably just mixed him up with another Ernesto.

...right?

It’s an uncomfortable truth but his dad just wasn’t around for so long...he could easily have another kid. But they wouldn’t have been in college before him, Meta is only 17 and he doubts that his sibling is even smarter than him.

...that sounded really shitty of him.

He starts doing the math. At the most they could be the same age as him. Maybe older? Maybe he has an older half sibling? No, he asked his dad and he told Meta all the time that he was the only kid in his life.

His dad wouldn’t lie to him.

His dad wouldn’t…

Well, a simple google search wouldn’t hurt.

He pastes the name into the search bar, scrolling until he reaches a Facebook profile of a woman. She’s definitely not Sandalphon, her name being Miyu and her last post being a while ago, but in her profile he sees a boy that looks too much like him and his dad. His hair is dark, like Meta’s was before he dyed it blue, but his eyes are red like the woman next to him. He can see the similar eye shape, a bit thinner than Meta’s own. He doesn’t smile in the picture but instead gives a snarky grin that Meta finds himself doing in pictures as well.

The picture is from years ago, he learns. He finds this Sandalphon, but his profile as well is inactive but for even longer.

Did they disappear?

He focuses harder on the sounds coming from downstairs. They’re still talking and he thinks he hears an aunt call for more booze.

They’ll be occupied for a while. 

Metatron bites down on his nail. In the pictures he sees, this Sandalphon can’t be older than Meta is now. Still not the usual age for college. He chews the tip off and spits it into the trashcan off his desk. Who is he? Who, who, who?

Meta knows it’s a bad idea, but he decides to look a bit deeper into who these people are.

He’s just...curious, is all. 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

A bag of chips squeezed between his thighs, Meta shoves handful after handful into his mouth as he types in the timeline he’s managed to put together into the excel sheet. So far, he’s learned that Miyu is Sandalphon’s mother and she died a few years ago, around the time her Facebook got inactive. While Sandalphon was born Ernesto, he no longer is, having changed his last name along with his mother after he applied to this university.

Sandalphon was born in the same hospital Meta was. That had given him a lot of pause. They had lived in the same county for a while until Miyu showed up again way up north with Sandalphon.

About the time when Meta was 12ish.

Sandalphon goes by a different last name now and that’s how Meta found his far more active twitter, that and the few times Sandalphon mentioned his mother by name when she died. Also extremely helpful is the active friend he had by the name of Zooey. Sometimes she still posts pictures of them, grown up, taller (but not by much). The last tweets are from a few hours ago where he posted a picture with a girl with dark skin and white hair. They’re both dressed up for Halloween, her in a Super Ranger outfit and him in matching latex. He has that same grin he always does in all the pictures Meta has found of him.

His brother is a pastry chef and, according to this magazine he read, a really good one. What’s fucked up is that Meta read that exact magazine about three months ago when he was in a doctor’s office for his massive carpal tunnel. 

“Top 30 under 30! The chefs of tomorrow’s cuisine today.” His brother had been number six.

Upon further inspection of the article, his brother owns a bakery thousands of miles away and retired from the plated dessert life for the more relaxed flow of small town baking. He looks...happy. Extremely so. The way he poses with the Pride cakes (the issues came out in the summer) is extremely personal that gives Meta a little nudge in his brain that he can’t quite place.

And that’s where he’s ended up, two weeks after he first found out about this individual, he’s basically tracked his life through google and less than savory methods. Is this stalkerish? Yes. Is this a bad coping mechanism? Hell to the yes.

He stares at the ticket prices. He’s got just enough.

Is this a really fucking bad idea?

_Absolutely_.

He clicks buy and immediately regrets everything.   
  



	10. Chapter 10

Sandalphon has fucked up royally, but he keeps his face professional as the young couple chatters on to each other as they sample his catering menu, being generally gross and in love as they pick dishes. He’s made them a sample cake he’s actually really proud of, the buttercream levels of flat that can only be achieved through the stars aligning and that kind of shit. The flowers took a bit more coaxing, as did the mock watercolors but Sandalphon is a skilled pastry chef. His livelihood depended on the little fuckers sticking to his cake.

The couple feeds each other once as a joke, the blonde choking a bit on some pasta and they quickly get over it. Sandalphon is vaguely aware of their antics as he automatically goes through the menu, eyes all but fixated on the object of his affection right across from him. Of course, Lucifer would show up right after Sandalphon realized he was avoiding texting back because of intense fear of rejection if he offered a date. Why is he so afraid? Sex and companionship had come easy in college, dropping off after due to his unstable living situation that involved travel to Europe and Asia. His last relationship had lasted a few days and awkward first dates that never ever felt like a second. He knew why, he’s a twink and in this area there’s a shortage of them. He’s desirable but only for the sex.

But Lucifer seems so different, actually interested in Sandalphon’s line of work. Or maybe he’s just into the free food. His nails are stained and his cuticles sport hidden dirt, a dry leaf caught in the fringes of his sweater. His face flushes when he meets Sandalphon’s eyes, casting his gaze down to his plate and pretending to stuff his face with Caesar salad.

It’s delicious, just like the rest of the sample meal, but the flavors run together in his dry mouth. He’s even cuter up close, deep crimson eyes hiding behind rich chocolate curls. That’s not even an exaggeration, he smells faintly of cherries, vanilla, and chocolate.

“Caro, I like the pasta more than the salmon,” Elta points at the menus, tapping where the change could be made. “Do you think we could do that instead, Sandalphon?”

Sandalphon says something absently, his pen burning scribbles into his notepad. Something that sounds vaguely like acceptable business practices or as acceptable as one can get when gazing down a beautiful man with a very fuckable face.

They’re excited and that should be, it’s their big day.

“Now,” Caro seems excited about the next bit, his leg trembling against the other. “About the cake?”

Sandalphon taps his pen twice against his notes, gives a small smile and gives them a gesture to wait while he produces a two-tiered sample cake, the bottom tier covered in pale green and white lilies, the second wrapped in watercolor music notes. Topping the cake is nothing short of a replica of the couple made of modeling chocolate.

“Eltaaaa! Look it’s me!” Caro points to the blond figurine, in awe at the details as he cranes his neck to get a better look at their tiny sculpted counterparts, finger sticking out but not daring to poke lest it break.

Elta awes himself at the artistry, fingertip grazing a sugar flower. “This is amazing, Sandalphon! Is it all sugar?”

“Sugar and fondant for the smaller flowers,” Sandalphon’s voice fades into a string of technical jargon, but lovely all the same. Lucifer simply watches him from across the table, stunned by how energetic he seems, how his eyes light up and his soul sets on fire when he speaks of pastry.

Ah...how envious is he.

Sandalphon glances up from his explanation and locks eyes with the florist, a blush spreading across his face before giving him a small smile and turning away.

He bemoans his idiocy, he knows he looks ridiculous, the fourth wheel that only served to help a decision-making process, even if he never once ever made an actual decision or said a word other than a squeaked out “hi’ when he caught a whiff of Sandalphon’s perfume.

But maybe Sandalphon isn’t interested and that’s why he never sent anything even as Lucifer stared at his phone screen devoid of notifications as the night turned to midnight and then eventually day. He holds close and dear the conversation they had, coached by his brother he may have been, he treasures the way Sandalphon laughs, his distinct energy. Being around him fills Lucifer with light and it burns to the touch, turns his insides to ash in ritualistic bleaching of his mind and body.

Lucifer can’t help himself as he watches the young man, shorter than Lucifer himself but formidable in those heels, deal effortlessly with his friends, everything and everyone fading into white noise as Sandalphon dead to rights laughs at something Elta says and it fills him with intense and painful jealousy.          

Maybe he’s trying to hard. His last partner always said that he clung to hard, fell to fast, broke his own heart with expectations of perfect love people simply couldn’t meet.

And in a way, he was right. People aren’t perfect.

But Sandalphon _is_.

“Sandalphon,” he works his courage up into a frenzy, idiocity bursting to reveal boldness as fresh berries spill their insides. Sandalphon nearly cracks his head against the counter he’s crouching beneath at the sudden call of his name, narrowly missing as he steps out.

“Ah...I’m sorry,” Lucifer gently grasps Sandalphon’s hand to steady his balance. They both have the shame to look flushed, with Lucifer apologizing deeply for this insult to personal space. His hand burns where they had touched and he swears that it blows away in the wind as it turns to petals and ash.

He’s so close and now Sandalphon can clearly see how fucking outmatched he is. Lucifer towers over him, tall but not lanky, with most of his height and weight spread evenly throughout his frame. He carries himself well behind that sweater, of this Sandalphon is assured, due to his firm but graceful grip on his fingers just a moment ago. He’s flawless, and Sandalphon hates how his heart screams out for them to fuck already but his heart is a dumbass. His heart doesn’t know shit about people and how they work, his heart is just an extension of his ass and to a lesser extent, his dick. His heart won’t have to deal with Lucifer gazing at him with complete disgust and how much it hurts.

“Y...yes!” Sandalphon grips his hair, twisting a coil tightly around his finger. “I mean...uh...I’m sorry. I loved the teapot flowers. They look so nice in my home. I just didn’t want to seem weird and just blow up your phone with texts and I just...um.”

Lucifer’s face turns rose, memories of that awkward moment spurring into his mind. He shrinks a bit, eyes looking everywhere but at Sandalphon. “I wouldn’t have minded…”

Of course.                                                               

Lucifer continues on. “I mean that I know busy you can get! You do all this work by yourself. You’re incredibly dedicated to your work and I admire that. You even took up this wedding for my friends. I just wish that I...um…” he finally looks at Sandalphon, his eyes sparkling as if his ocean had swallowed the stars.

“He’s asking you on a date, idiot.” Zooey mumbled from behind the counter, stuffing her face with the last Swiss roll in the display.

The duo go silent, attempting to rectify who is the idiot and who is the one asking for the date.

“Am I?”

“Are you trying to…?”

“Ha...haha.” Lucifer breaks out in a hysterical laugh, embarrassment plain. “I am trying. Not well but...perhaps we could go for breakfast this weekend? Coffee?”

Sandalphon feels all logic and intelligence die in his mouth. “Ah. Uh. I...I…”                                  

“He’d fucking love to!” Zooey throws something at the smaller man to reboot his catastrophic system failure.

“I would? I would! Yes! I would love to go on a date with you!” Sandalphon babbles but it comes out and Lucifer brightens.

“Oh! Yes! So...I’ll text you!” Lucifer attempts to walk away but smacks right dab into the door, jingling the bell above. “Ahaha…”

He disappears down the street into his own shop and Sandalphon doesn’t stop waving until long after he’s gone.                                                                                                                                                                                                

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow irri you haven’t forgotten about this fic.
> 
> Come yell at me on twitter! @irridallium


	11. Chapter 11

Once, Lucilius despised this garden.

An area where plants grow in domestication is like any other plot of dirt, how disgusted Lucifer would be, but there’s something quite offensive about this place. When he was a child, he and his brothers used to play games of hide and seek and Lucilius was never any good at seeking. He would wander, lost and alone, crying for his brothers to come back to him.

And then, when the use of his legs was taken from him, he grew up but never grew out of begging his brothers to stay. He just went from begging to demanding and finally realized that perhaps force was the best way to accomplish his task. Eliminate all other options and they will have nowhere to go other than to stay by his side, where they were supposed to be, where they should have been.

They promised him.

And what is he left with? A rotting home that will one day consume him with the same emptiness that consumed his parents, consumed one of those idiots with alcohol and depression so much that they rammed the family car into a tree, launching Lucilius through broken glass and leaving him impaled on a branch and chained to this chair.

Stagnant, broken. A shell of a child with his fencing dreams left in pieces.

He still hates this garden. His parents had planted it, flighty with the family fortune. A duo of waste of space socialites who should have never bred. The only reason it hasn’t been burned and turned into a garage for cars he would never drive is that his idiot little brother loves it.

Lucilius takes a small sip of tea, frowning in displeasure when it proves too sweet for his tastes, but continues to drink it as he has no desire to spit it out in the young couple’s faces. Not out of courtesy, but because he, unlike his parents, actually gives a shit about the images people hold of him.

“Lucifer said you could set up a wedding here?” He wants to grit his teeth into dust. His brother is nothing resembling a socialite but his desire to use their family home for parties, some nerve coming from a child who has fled the coop, he’s starting to show traits that Lucilius wants to stomp out. Lucifer is not a 15-year-old boy and he’s certainly not the party gay stereotype, but he’s acting like both with this stunt he’s pulling, showing up with these two in tow to beg for a free wedding setting and to use the house staff nonetheless. “Huh, he should learn not to promise things to people without having permission first. We host many events at this estate, especially during the wintertime. You had best hope that I can even find a spot or even care to.”

The small man dressed in blues shuffles uncomfortably with his fingernails while the blond is as per usual, clueless. “I know we are asking a bit much, but this is such a lovely estate and it would be a perfect background to our wedding.”

“That doesn’t change much.” Lucilius can’t pretend he cares for this tea anymore, setting his teacup down on it’s matching saucer. “You won’t be paying me, you will be using my staff and my utilities for a wedding for…?”

“Uh, 500 guests. Friends, family, associates…”

Lucilius narrows his eyes, his grip firmly set and his knuckles as delicate and porcelain as the cup trembling in his grip. “Quite exuberant for a couple without the means to _purchase_  the use of _my_ estate. I believe that Lucifer failed to mention he has no stakes in our family home. He had no right to offer you our home.”

They flinch back, possibly offended, shame flooding into their faces, grasping onto each other after the verbal lash Lucilius has subjected them to. Disappointment follows shame into the blue boy’s soul, but the dumb blonde is, naturally, a dumb blonde and scrunches up his face. “We would be okay to give you reimbursement, but Lucifer offered it to us. Don’t you think his wishes are valuable?”

“I think my brother was wrong to say you could have this for free, considering he’s no better than a gardener,” Lucilius waves his hand nonchalantly at the exuberant estate and its luxurious gardens, which were nothing but empty rows of snow-dusted dirt at this time of year. “I’m especially disappointed in you, Elta. Why don’t you just use your family’s home?” A sneer trickles into his lips, eyes devoid of any mirth.

Elta turns bright red at the ears, burying the irritated quirk of his lips with a cough.

“The ballroom leaves much to be desired, I will admit,” Lucilius continues on, “But you would just cut out half of the guest list? Maybe a third, the children don’t need to be present at an event such as this.”

“Just because my family may be wealthy does not mean I want to be a burden on them,” Elta said, growing redder under his sweater. The greenhouse felt much too hot and all he wanted was to jump face first into the snow outside of the humid walls and scream.

“Well, they should _adopt_ an official policy of not bothering others for their wealth. Then maybe you would know better. Or, maybe not.”

Elta says nothing and resists the temptation to roll his eyes. His adoptive parents have already expressed their disagreement in this wedding and his choice in partner, he doesn’t need someone not involved in the process of a promise between friends, but this meeting is only out of courtesy. Lucilius lives there, Lucifer doesn’t.

Elta regrets ever considering it.

“Maybe we don’t need this venue.” Caro chirps up, trying to cheer his lover. “We can call Sandalphon and tell him we moved to a church or something. The church of Illa is so beautiful with the chandelier!”

Sandalphon...Lucilius runs the name over in his mind, taking it apart and searching through his memory of this name. It comes together when he remembers the name mentioned in passing by his youngest brother. A certain fondness attached to it.

A certain affection.

Lucilius raises his hand, ever the benevolent benefactor, drawing the couple out of their conversation. “Well, now, let’s not be hasty.”

They are, rightfully, wary, but even more eager.

“Tell me more about your plans.”

*~*~*~*

He oversleeps.

Because of course he does.

Rain pours against his window, melting the weak snowfall into sheets of painful black ice.

Sandalphon awakens with the distinct dread that he’s overslept hitting him directly in the gut and tearing his insides out, rolling to the floor from his bed in a heavy panic, heaving a bit in his mouth when he catches a glimpse of his clock.

Ding fucking dong he’s missed their date.

His phone is a litany of messages from Zooey, wondering if he got pounded in a restaurant bathroom or murdered or both, and three from Lucifer wondering where he is or if he’s gotten the dates confused because he gets confused often.

Oh, he wants to fucking die, of course Lucifer blames himself, why wouldn’t he?

Sandalphon digs into his closet, cracking a nail against the brick wall and hissing into his phone as it dials up Lucifer.

“Pick up, please, pick up, I’m so sorry. Plea-”

“Sandalphon? Are you alright?” Lucifer’s soft, warm voice is concerned for him and Sandalphon wants to curl up and die. “Are you hurt? Do you need help? 911?”

“No, no, no, Lucifer, calm down, I’m okay, I’m fine, I’m so sorry I missed our date, I overslept right through my alarm.”

Lucifer sighs in relief, worry leaving his voice. “I’m so glad you’re okay. I was worried when you didn’t come.”

“Stay right there! I can get an Uber and be there in half an hour.” Sandalphon pulls his jeans up, forgoing his favorite leggings for something more practical for the cold weather outside.

“Oh, uh, our reservation was for an hour ago.”

Fuck.

“...oh.”

Lucifer continues on, “we can still have our breakfast somewhere else. Some other time if this doesn’t work for you.”

“No! No, no, no! I’m so sorry I missed our date. I’ll take you to lunch as an apology,” Sandalphon pulls his sweater over his small form, grumbling a bit when he doesn’t fill it out quite as well as he had hoped. “It’ll be at this Paris themed cafe. They have pastries.”

At the mention of pastries Lucifer’s voice brightens, a tentative, “really?” coming from the other line.

 

*~*~*~*

 

And that’s how Sandalphon’s found himself shoved into a cheesy themed restaurant that loss any and all taste when the owner decided to plaster the walls with French flags and kitschy Eiffel towers. Where all the taste and common sense is sucked out of the decor, it finds its way into the pastries and delicate quiches displayed in their cases proudly.

Sandalphon hates this place because it’s a threat to his livelihood. If the owner would grow some designing sense, Sandalphon would have real competition. He likes the place because at least it has focus. They stick to French pastries and make laden frites, cheese oozing from the crusty edges of toasted bread. Sandalphon occasionally makes smores mochi because he had a dream about sitting around a fireplace while simultaneously being crushed between Lucifer legs after seeing them pressed tight into his jeans once.

He shouldn’t be thinking of that but Lucifer always wears longer shirts that hide his curves from view, depriving Sandalphon from pinching the squishy rolls of…

Well. Lucifer doesn’t have much fat in his ass. Not much there.

Much like his head, it seems.

He’s fucking terrible and he wishes he could die.

Lucifer waves from outside, clutching an umbrella to his side and a red paper cup warming in his other hand. The wave is just a raise of the cup and Sandalphon finds the way Lucifer smacks his head on the doorway, spilling coffee on his glove, absolutely fucking charming and he wants to fuck this man.

“Hello!” Lucifer is cheery as he slips out of his coat, leaving his thin red scarf wrapped around his neck and revealing a deep blue sweater with the collar of a dress shirt peeking out from the maw of the knitted beast. His pants are flawless, starched into stiffness and his shoes have a distinctive red on the bottom.

Oh dear fucking, Bahamut, Sandalphon had to get a rich one. He should throw the towel out of this shit. He doesn’t need this chaos in his life. He looks like a shit eating hobo with his one good pair of jeans.

“Hey! I’m really sorry about missing breakfast.” He stands up to shake Lucifer’s hand and Lucifer looks a touch confused at the professionalism from the person who stalked him via window for a year, but he gives his hand too.

Strike. Him. Down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> twitter: @irridallium

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for a while and was like, hey test it out and well there we go. 
> 
> Xeno ifrit? I don't know her.
> 
> If you want to yell at me my Twitter is @irridallium and my tumblr is @bhunichan. I'm an awkward bean who wants friends who know what I'm talking about when I cry about angels ok byyyye.


End file.
